


Not My First Rodeo

by stocktonwood



Category: DC Animated Universe (Timmverse), DC Comics, DC Universe, DCU, Justice League, Justice League Unlimited
Genre: Angst, Secret Injury, Torture, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29641227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stocktonwood/pseuds/stocktonwood
Summary: It's been almost a day since Vigilante and Oswald escaped from enemy hands and Oswald is trying to overcome his customary indifference towards the suffering of anyone who isn’t Ed in the wake of a jarring experience wherein he was protected and preserved by someone he’s never even considered a friend. Plus, Ed is really worried and he can't very well have that.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Not My First Rodeo

Oswald Cobblepot has never been generous with his compassion. Outside of his own small circle of cherished souls, he's never been one for heartfelt conversations or even, for taking the feelings of another into genuine consideration. At least, not for _their_ benefit anyway. And yet, after talking with Ed, he feels compelled to at least check in on Vigilante. The wounds the other man sustained were, by any metric, grievous and the fact that he'd received them on Oswald's behalf only adds a special kind of fuel to the fire of his somewhat uncharacteristic concern.

So, as uncomfortable as it may be and as out of his depth as Oswald feels, he goes in search of the tall cowboy with as much nerve and good will as he can muster. He checks in all the usual places he can think of and one by one, finds them empty. He's just on the cusp of frustration when, by pure chance, he stalks by what passes for a kitchen in their ramshackle little base and finds the very man he's been searching for; leaning up against the counter, a mug of coffee in his hand and a blank, empty expression on his face.

To say he's surprised to find him here is a massive understatement. Given what they'd been through---what _Vigilante’d_ been through----Oswald had expected him to be locked away somewhere private---alone, attending to his hurt and grief in whatever way was even possible. To find him in such a well trafficked location seemed odd---wrong. True, Vigilante was currently the kitchen's only occupant but the potential for new arrivals was high and nearly constant. How the man could bear the possibility of being suddenly surrounded by people after...that seemed unfathomable.

And yet, there he stood; long legs crossed at the ankles and posture only as stiff as you'd expect from a man sporting a cast and displaying an impressive collection of still-livid bruises and stitches.

If it hadn't been for his eerily blank expression, Oswald might have been fooled into believing he was only nursing something as mundane as the usual physical injuries men in his profession were undoubtedly accustomed to. But the blank stare _was_ jarringly obvious and besides, _Oswald had been there._ He had seen what Flag and his men had done. Had heard the crowing laughter. The taunting jeers. Worse, he'd heard the jagged screams. The short, panicked breaths. The muffled whimpers.

And all of it was still so fresh in _his_ memory that he doesn't know whether to be impressed or horrified by the fact that Vigilante is _anywhere_ but a hospital bed. What he does know, however, is that, now, he's even more determined to speak to the man.

But...he hasn't forgotten the way Saunders had startled when he'd approached him before, after. Still remembers the full body flinch and the poorly concealed panic. So, instead of walking in directly, he takes two steps back and upon moving forward again, ensures that his approach is as noisy as possible. When Vigilante does not start, but instead, looks up slowly, as if in a daze, Oswald assumes he's been successful and moves further into the room.

"Vigilante," he greets, as cordially--and nonchalantly--as possible.

The other man doesn't respond. Just stares vaguely in his direction; eyes looking slightly past him, unfocused and empty. Normally, such a non-reaction would have been instantly irritating, and Oswald would have snapped, viciously demanding a response. But under the circumstances, he pushes down his reflexive ire and takes the opportunity to inspect Vigilante more closely.

He hasn't seen the man since he'd all but delivered Oswald into Ed's waiting arms and, in the time since, his appearance has changed considerably. The torn and bloodied bib shirt has been replaced by a simple black button down, still dark (which is a feat considering their lifestyle) but no longer stiff or crisp and one cuff hangs loose and undone to make room for the thick cast that wraps around his hand and wrist. The light jeans---similarly stained---are likewise gone, replaced by a darker, slightly looser pair. The only thing that's the same are the boots, which, to be fair, Oswald has rarely seen Vigilante without. All in all, he looks.... surprisingly normal.

Of course, that's only sartorially. Physically, the evidence of the violence inflicted so recently upon his person is still abundantly clear.

Indeed, almost shockingly so.

And even then, he looks light-years better than the last time Oswald had seen him. His face, which had been filthy with blood from cuts and tears both major and minor, is now clean. And the worst of those myriad wounds are either stitched closed or covered over by bandages. The long one, that snakes down from behind his ear to just above his collar bone, appears to have been treated with both and the result is such an improvement that Oswald can actually look at it without his stomach turning. Even the bruises that mar and discolor Vigilante's skin are less florid. Some, the lesser ones, have even begun to take on a paler, greenish hue at the edges.

Nevertheless, improved though he may be, it's still a grim sight. And it takes considerable effort for Oswald not to think about all the other injuries he _knows_ are concealed beneath the man's clothing. The blank stare that meets his own is not helping. It's unnerving, unnatural. And it reminds Oswald too much of what Vigilante looked like after.

So, in a rare act of capitulation, he looks away, gaze falling on the heavy looking cast that runs from the man's hand and up his wrist.

It's a mistake.

In an instant, he remembers the way Flag had slammed that wrist over and over into the ground. Can practically hear the sickening crunch as the bones had finally given way. The ragged howl of pain when someone had stomped on the hand and ground it viciously into the hard, unforgiving cement. He remembers how, after, the swelling had been so horrific he’d found himself wondering if Vigilante would ever be able to twirl those shining pistols the same way again.

He still wonders.

"How's the wrist?" He asks, voice light and politely inquiring. He's asking about the wrist he tells himself. Only about the wrist.

Vigilante blinks---slowly. One long blink and then another. If Oswald didn't have nerves of steel, it would have been excruciating. But when it suited Oswald, he could be a very a patient man and he can see that with every blink, the fog is clearing from Vigilante's eyes. So, he waits, until finally, the man's blue eyes are clear, sharp, and focused entirely on Oswald.

.... And somehow, it's even worse than the dull stare. Where before there had simply been vacant nothingness, now there is thought, emotion, pain. In his clean, simple clothes Vigilante might look outwardly composed, but in his eyes, Oswald sees what can only be described as devastation.

It's jarring. Incongruous. For, in every other way, barring his current very obvious injuries, Vigilante appears the very picture of youthful vigor. His wavy hair is thick and dark. That Alexandrine forelock falls dashingly across his brow. And his strong, broad shoulders are offset attractively by a lean, tapered waist.

And yet, in his eyes, he is tired. Exhausted. Spent.

"It'll heal."

It's the first time he's heard Vigilante speak since their return and Oswald is sorry to note that the man's usual melodic drawl, rich in tone and warm in timbre, has still not returned. Instead, his voice is much like it was...after. Raw and rough. Graveled and low.

"I’m sure it will," Oswald agrees evenly. "But no doubt it's painful. It hurts?"

Vigilante's jaw works and beneath all those stitches and bruises, he blanches. But only slightly.

"Like hell," he replies, voice strained and tight. "But," he adds, seemingly with considerable effort, "it'll pass."

Oswald gets the impression that those words were intended to sound hopeful or perhaps, reassuring. But to his ears, they only sound desperate; shot through with exhaustion and infused with the air of some kind of horrible anguish.

Even before, when Vigilante had sworn him to secrecy about the true extent of it all, he'd thought it was a bad idea. But, after having spent so long demanding Vigilante name some way that Oswald could repay him, he'd had no choice but to accept when the man had finally given in and named his terms.

Now, listening to that voice bleed desolation, he wishes more than ever that he'd just let it be when Saunders had told him, over and over, that he didn't owe him a thing.

"Surely, there are things you could do to hasten it?"

The taller man raises his chin. One hand drops to his waist and he hooks his thumb on the buckle of his belt. Oswald takes it as an invitation to elaborate.

"I'm sure Doctor--"

"I'm sure he would," Vigilante agrees, with a touch of forced lightness. "But, reckon I c'n handle it on m'own."

Oswald's skepticism is intense, and it must show on his face, because Vigilante huffs a small, humorless laugh and throws him a thin smile.

"This ain't my first rodeo, Oz," he says quietly.

And for a long moment, Oswald flounders. He'd known already. _Of course_ , he'd known. He'd _seen_ the way Vigilante had reacted to Flag's vulgar allusions and cruel insinuations about the Hawks. Had _seen_ the way his face had drained of color, and his dark eyelashes had grown heavy and glittered with tears. The grief and fear and shame had been so profound, so tangible that it was impossible for Oswald _not_ to have known. But this....is the first time Vigilante, himself, has actually acknowledged it and something about the admission knocks Oswald back on his heels.

So much so, that before he can even recover, Vigilante has pushed himself stiffly away from the counter, raised two fingers in a lazy salute and limped past him and out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually part of much larger piece that I’ve been writing for a long time but I wanted to post it because 1. I’d like to start getting feedback and 2. It’s been years since I’ve written anything to post and I’m really eager to get back on the horse and can’t wait till the whole thing is finished.
> 
> Anyway, this fic takes place in the world of DC comics and I’ve basically pulled my favorite versions of various characters from across a ton of different adaptations and then tweaked them to fit into the world I’ve been working on. For example, Oswald Cobblepot and Ed Nygma are based on their Gotham (Fox) incarnations; and Pat Dugan is a amalgam of his Stargirl (DC U/CW) and JLU incarnations. And, of course, I've pulled from DC comics canon and from across various adaptations for everyone and everything. So, if you think I’m referencing that thing you remember happening in that show from 15 years ago, you’re probably right. (And for the record, that’s about how long I’ve been working on this fic lol).
> 
> Here’s the basic context for this scene:
> 
> The world of DC comics. Following a catastrophic shift in global & esp. US politics, most heroes find themselves diametrically opposed to the government in power. Its policies are brutal, inhumane and deeply rooted in the cruelest traditions of authoritarian regimes. Those considered villains have been largely wiped out and a good chunk of the superhero community has gone with them. Those who remain have been run to ground but continue in their efforts to protect the vulnerable and overthrow the regime. Finding common cause with their former adversaries, some villains have even joined in their efforts.
> 
> This scene takes place well into the story. Oswald has largely held an abiding dislike for Vigilante (he’s tall and handsome and talks like a cowpoke from a dime store novel; all things Oswald pretty much hates on principle), but his husband Ed, who doesn’t generally form friendships easily or quickly, has an established and genuine friendship with the man. While a part of Oswald appreciates the man’s sincere regard for Ed, he has a jealous nature and struggles with the idea of not having Ed all to himself. Plus, he’s just never really gotten on with the hero types.
> 
> This has been cross-posted to my tumblr and there, you can see some reference pics in case you aren't familiar with the characters: https://stocktonwood.tumblr.com/post/643850759738458112/not-my-first-rodeo


End file.
